


After

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sequel, Starkcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The following fic is the sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3097433">Feels Like Home</a> and deals with the events of the morning after. It’s also in response to a few old Arya x Jon requests sitting in my ask box on tumblr, and a new anon request just yesterday! You’ll probably want to read “Feels Like Home” first, and then read this.</p>
    </blockquote>





	After

**Author's Note:**

> The following fic is the sequel to [Feels Like Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3097433) and deals with the events of the morning after. It’s also in response to a few old Arya x Jon requests sitting in my ask box on tumblr, and a new anon request just yesterday! You’ll probably want to read “Feels Like Home” first, and then read this.

She’s too warmand that’s what wakes her up. She sleeps with the thinnest blankets, even on the coldest nights in Berlin. She’s better in the cold, she is, but right now she’s overwhelmingly hot even though she’s naked. 

She’s puzzled for a moment, and acutely uncomfortable with her mouth alcohol-dry, and skin damp from sweat, when she becomes acutely aware of the arm draped across her body. 

_Jon_. 

He’s like a human furnace at her side, skin so hot she almost worried that he’s running a fever. Easily, slowly, so slowly, she turns to face him, and presses her lips to his forehead the way her mum used to do to her. The skin there is as warm as the rest of him, and she’s not quite sure what it means. 

Jon is still slumbering quietly, and she takes the opportunity to look at him, really _look_ at him. Long eyelashes, full lips, long face, so like hers. They have the same cheekbones, and the same nose, but his eyes are shaped differently, and though his face is long, something about his lips and jaw are so different. 

She’s about to reach out and trace them when his eyes flutter open. Grey, exactly like hers, the same color, right down to the darker ring around the iris. 

He smiles at her, sleepy and lazy, and murmurs, “You’ve got terrible morning breath, you know.” 

“Arse!” Arya yelled, hitting him playfully and leaping out from the couch, wrapping the blanket around you. “As if your stupid breath were any better!” 

Still, she strides to the bathroom, as dignified as one can be when they’re hungover and naked, save for an old Winterfell Wolves blanket. She brushes her teeth furiously, and when Jon opens the door and steps in behind her, casually reaching for his toothbrush to do the same, it takes every inch of willpower she has not to smile at him. 

She finishes first, and is just starting to gargle with mouthwash, when he tickles her side. She spits mouthwash everywhere and drops the blanket in surprise. 

Jon grins at her. 

“You’re a tool, Jon Snow,” she says, and jabs him right in the sternum. He grunts. 

“That’s not what you said last night,” and there it is. Jon’s eyes are wide, and there’s no hiding the nervous blush that rises to his cheeks. 

_He’s worried_ , Arya thinks, amazed. _He’s honestly worried_. 

“What did I say last night?” She asks, aiming for her best innocent, which she can never quite pull off the way that Sansa can. 

Jon’s eyes widen even further, something she didn’t think was possible, until he notices that she’s struggling to keep her face straight. 

“And _I’m_ the ass?” He says, and it looks as though he’s going to retaliate by poking her in the stomach, but he lets his hand drop. 

There’s a long pause, and Arya is glad she knows him so well, because she can see the play of emotions across his face. She can read every worry, and every concern, and she finds that she is absolutely delighted that not once does _regret_ cross his features.   


“Arya,” he begins, “we should probably talk—“ 

She cuts him off by leaning across her tiny bathroom and kissing him, nipping at that full bottom lip. When she pulls back he looks a little dazed and she is absurdly proud. 

“We should do the opposite of talking,” she says, and she’s surprised at how breathless she sounds. “You promised I’d get my way in the morning.” 

“Arya,” he breathes, and she doesn’t think her name has ever sounded sweeter. 

She kisses him again, and this time walks him backwards into the living room, lips never leaving his for more than a second. She underestimates the distance to the couch, and they both collapse on it in an ungraceful heap. 

She giggles, and he just smiles and runs his fingers through her hair. 

“You’re beautiful, you know,” he says, quite seriously, and for a moment it feels like all the air has been sucked out of her lungs. It’s a thing that still said more of Sansa than it is of her, and even now it’s hard not to brace for the gale of laughter and stifled _horseface_. But Jon’s grey eyes are boring into her, and Jon never called her that, not once, and Arya is sure she’s never loved anyone more than Jon in that moment. 

He kisses her neck and throat, and makes to lay her back against the couch, when she places a hand on his chest to stop him. 

“My turn,” she says sharply, amused by the way Jon’s eyebrows raise. She pushes him back against the couch and sinks to her knees between his legs. 

“You d-don’t—“ he stammers out, but she shushes him with a kiss against his inner thigh. 

“I want to,” she says, aiming for seductive but coming across as more eager than anything. 

She grasps his cock in her hand and gives it an experimental pump. Jon bites his lip. 

She licks up the underside of his cock, reveling in the strangled noises Jon makes above her.  When she wraps her lips around the head, he throws his head back, knocking it into the wall. His hands clench into a fist, and Arya wants to tell him that he’s more than welcome to grab her hair, but to do that she’d have to take her mouth of his cock, and _gods_ wouldn’t that be a crime?

She sucks down the length of him, gripping him with her fist when her mouth can take no further, and Jon’s moans and gasps are music to her ears. She’s just settling into a good rhythm, when his hands finally tangle into her hair, but instead of pushing her down, he hauls her up. 

“Stop,” he says, and his voice is shredded, and his skin is flushed. 

“Why?” She asks, trying and failing to keep a petulant pout off of her face. “My morning, remember?” 

“Is that what you want?” Jon asks, blushing even further. “Because there are other things…” 

“What things?” She asks, trying for coy, but she giggles, because it’s _Jon_ , and she doesn’t need to be coy. 

He rolls his eyes at her. “I’d like to fuck you properly, Arya Stark, if that’s alright with you.” 

She grins, and pulls open the drawer concealed at the bottom of the couch, and throws several condoms at him. 

“Pick a color and go for it,” she says, not even bothering to hold back the giggle when one hits him right in the eye. 

“Go for it, she says,” he mutters as he picks one up from the couch. “No sense of romance, nothing.” 

She about to laugh at him again, except he’s joined her on the floor, and his hand is cupping her jaw, and he’s staring at her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. 

He smiles at her, and she knows that’s precisely what her smile looks like, and it’s the first time she finds it truly beautiful.   


“Jon,” she murmurs, and now it’s his turn to kiss her silent. 

He lays her back onto the floor, one hand cradling her head, the other skimming up and down her side raising goose bumps on her skin. When his fingers move lower, trailing over her stomach and over the coarse, dark hair covering her sex. He ghosts his fingers over her clit, and her back arches at the barest hint of touch. 

He kisses her deeply, tongue pressing against hers, while his fingers press against her clit and dip into her. It’s too shallow, and there’s not nearly enough friction, and her protesting, pleading whines are swallowed by Jon’s mouth. It’s so good, and it’s not enough, and suddenly he’s pulling away, and there’s the crinkle of foil, and then he’s back. His mouth his hot, and hard on hers, and he’s spreading her legs wide, and pushing himself into her. 

She tightens her legs around him pulling him in deeper, and he grunts above her when she matches his thrusts with the same vigor. She pushes at his shoulders until he obediently rolls over and repositions her onto of him. And then she _rides_. 

Her hands grip his thighs and she undulates her hips, and Jon’s mouth opens in a wordless moan. His fingers find her clit again and it isn’t long before she’s coming with a screaming, clenching hard around Jon’s cock. 

Jon grabs her hips then, with near bruising force, and thrusts up, once, twice, _thrice_ , before he’s coming too, moaning her name. 

He lifts her off him when he comes back to himself, getting up to dispose of the condom. She lays on the floor the whole while, spent, body still tingling pleasantly. She hears the sound of running water, and the toilet flushing, and Jon returns with a cool washcloth and the discarded blanket and throws it over her. He lowers himself to the floor and lays next to her, wiping her forehead and arms with the cloth. 

“Happy now?” He asks, after a fashion, still absently brushing the cloth up and down her arm. 

“Quite,” she says, turning to face him. “Are you?” 

She stares at his face, waiting to see even the slightest bit of regret or hesitation, but none comes.

“I am,” he says quietly, reaching out to cup her cheek. 

She smiles, and rests her head against his shoulder. 

“We’ll eventually have to talk about this, you know,” he says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger. “It’s a thing that needs to be talked about.” 

“I know,” she says, and sighs. She’s not looking forward to the serious talks or the logistics of everything not yet. Not while she’s still in Berlin, and miles away from home. Not while she’s here with Jon. 

“Later,” she says. “After.” 

“After?” Jon asks, raising his brows again.   


“After,” Arya confirms, and tilts her head up to kiss him again. 


End file.
